


Electrifying

by AkumaStrife



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Fingerstripes, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin can’t meet Nightwing on the field anymore without completely loosing his train of thought. Acutely aware of each shift of muscle and the ache to be pushed up against an alley wall, or perhaps flattened to a rooftop. He’s always most thankful for his domino mask when his gaze is predictably drawn to those fingerstripes. Seemingly harmless, and yet they wreck him. Tantalize his thoughts with explicit images and a need that digs at him, makes its home deep at his core and refuses to quiet.</p>
<p>If Tim’s being honest, he’s surprised it’s taken him this long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electrifying

Tim watches him, has always watched him. He’s his hero, his inspiration,  _his everything._  Tim would not be where he is now if it hadn’t have been for Dick.

Becoming part of the line of Robins has only fueled his obsession, escalating it, morphed it into something softer and more acceptable; adoration and affection and genuine longing. He’s so much closer than before, but somehow it’s only made Dick more inaccessible. Someone he can pull close, but never have. And it tears at him, burns deep and permanent.

He watches Dick and admires him, does all he can to gain his attention and favor. Anything to be praised and smiled at. And when he’s alone his fantasies get away from him. Imagines those bright eyes looking at him with want, those strong arms crushing him close.

But it’s Nightwing who will be his undoing. He’s certain.

Because Dick is one thing, but Nightwing ups the ante. He’s powerful and graceful, painted so prettily in spandex and that electrifyingly stripe of blue. Robin can’t meet Nightwing on the field anymore without completely loosing his train of thought. Acutely aware of each shift of muscle and the ache to be pushed up against an alley wall, or perhaps flattened to a rooftop. He’s always most thankful for his domino mask when his gaze is predictably drawn to those fingerstripes. Seemingly harmless, and yet they wreck him. Tantalize his thoughts with explicit images and a need that digs at him, makes its home deep at his core and refuses to quiet.

If Tim’s being honest, he’s surprised it’s taken him this long.

It’s easy, criminally easy, like the universe is indulging in his perverse habits. He just has to wait until Dick’s too injured for patrol, waits for Dick to leave his suit in a heap on his bedroom floor and stay over with Wally or Kory—it doesn’t matter which. All he cares about is the way the Nightwing gloves lay limp in his grasp. They’re cool, soft with use, almost like silk.

Tim’s heart thumps loudly in hesitation and excitement and he presses them to his face. Sliding them along his cheek and inhaling deeply. They smell like Dick; like sweat and iron and a hint of something musky. And before he knows it he’s tugging them on. They’re a little big, but hug his hands well enough and grow warm against his skin, like Dick’s holding them and  _god_  he shouldn’t be this aroused by wearing a pair of dirty gloves.

There’s no one to stop him, to tell him its wrong, when he’s curled up against one wall in his closet, and the first press of fabric to his lips makes him tremble. He inhales sharply through his nose as those two particular fingers nudge past his lips, practically tasting the neon blue. He almost groans, but manages to keep quiet as he sucks the fabric, eyes falling shut as he pretends their Dick’s hands, heavy and firm on his tongue. He pushes his other hand down into his boxers without thinking, stroking gently, just barely teasing as heat floods his skin. 

There’s a full-length mirror in his closet, and really, it’s quite fitting considering. The door is cracked just so that a shaft of light snakes into the small room and falls perfectly over his lap, highlights it as he kicks his boxers off. In the mirror Tim can only see a shadowy reflection and a fingerstriped glove wrapped around his cock, and it jerks in his grasp at the sight, his heart lurching.

Pulling his hand from his mouth he trails it down, lets the soaked blue fabric drag over his chest and quivering stomach before dropping between bent legs, spreading them wider as he rubs one textured finger over the ring of muscles.

The gloves are rough and his breath catches when he begins to push his middle finger in, but he forces himself to relax as he slowly works himself open; fisting himself as sweat collects on his spine.    

The silence is deafening in his ears, makes the darkness even thicker around him, yet he doesn’t dare make a sound. The rough slide of his gloved finger literally pushes the air out of his lungs, makes him suck it back in quickly and grind his skull back into the wall. It’s  _good._   _Really good._

As soon as he can manage he works his ring finger in next to the first and can’t help a wrecked groan. His lungs heave and his skin tingles with heat and sweat and arousal. And to see those gloves reflected in the mirror, blue around his cock and blue filling him so full, almost makes him come undone on the spot. A whine works its way out of his throat and he tries to swallow it back down, moving his fingers,  _Dick’s fingers,_ slow and deep.

Tim’s eyelids are heavy and his chest heaves, but he keeps his eyes slitted open, keeps them watching Dick’s fingerstripes thrust in and out of him, his toes curling into the carpet and his legs shaking with the effort to make it last.  

He’s gasping, sucking in as much oxygen as he can, because it’s like he can’t breathe. Like the fingers are filling him full and he has no more room. His pulse thunders in his ears; every textured drag of the glove over his dick sending icy heat like static electricity washing through him  _because this is how it’d look with Dick’s hand getting him off._

The thought slams into him, makes him moan high and needy, and his mind goes fuzzy at the edges. He begins to curl in on himself, hips rolling and moving on their own, pushing down onto all that  _blueblueblue._ Hot and wound tight, breathing quick with little tortured sounds because it feels like that’s all he can do.

His hand moves quicker, the blue a blur as he gasps and whines and he has to stop so he can cover his mouth to muffle all the sound he’s making, fingers still working quick inside him, curling and spreading. And with that glove pressed over his mouth suddenly he’s overwhelmed with the smell of Dick, of  _Nightwing_ —heady and suffocating.

He’s falls completely apart. Shuddering hard and clamping down around his fingers, his other hand stroking himself through it as he moans low, because that’s what Dick would do. Dick would croon at him, pet him through it, wring every last bit of pleasure that he could from him.

Tim watches in the reflection as the hand-that’s-not-his, those bright fingerstripes, trail through the line of cum on his abdomen. Sticky white on blue.


End file.
